


Interrupted

by Katranga



Series: Drop the Gauntlets [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 21:51:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7862473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katranga/pseuds/Katranga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris doesn't do PDA unless he's drunk. A walk back from the Hanged Man gets a little out of hand.<br/>A quick follow-up to "Dissenting Opinions".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interrupted

So they touched each other. Often. But not generally in public, which made sense. Neither Hawke nor Fenris was the type to walk the streets holding hands, especially since their hands were usually wielding weapons.

And having sex on the job had ceased. Not only because it brought up bad connotations for Hawke, but because Isabela told the whole crew that Hawke and Fenris used to sneak off to hook up on missions, so now whenever the two of them were out of eyesight of the others, the cat calls and whistles rolled in.

“This is your fault,” Fenris muttered as they returned from picking over a dead body tucked behind a bush.

“Eh, that was a quick one,” Varric called. “You losing your touch?”

Hawke looked at Fenris incredulously. “ _My_ fault?”

“Well, _I_ didn’t tell Isabela.”

“No, you just decided to fuck after killing things.”

He frowned, but couldn’t argue. She elbowed him lightly in ribs. He flickered a smile at her before threatening to rip Isabela’s earrings off one by one if she asked about his dick tattoos again.

So they kept their touches private, just theirs, for when they were alone. When Hawke gripped him with strong fingers, because light caresses hurt worse than sure pressure against his tattoos. When she guided his calloused hands over her ribs to her breasts, because he’d barely touched them their first go-around. As she straddled his thighs and met his eyes and he gazed up at her with heat but not hate. Something closer to admiration, appreciation, adoration.

That’s not to say that he didn’t show he cared for her outside the bedroom, but he did so without any form of closeness.

Unless he got drunk. Then Fenris would transform into a version of himself that couldn’t keep his hands off of Hawke.

One bottle of wine, and he’d sidle up to her on the bench, legs lined up hip to knee. Two bottles, and he’d lay an arm across her shoulders.

Anything stronger and, well.

Aveline was trying to strategize against the various forces threatening Kirkwall, but the Hanged Man late at night was not the ideal place for that.

Fenris was perhaps the only person who would have actually paid attention but, alas, his nose was brushing Hawke’s ear as he murmured of the feel of her soft skin beneath his.

Blood rose to Hawke’s cheeks, but she kept her attention on Aveline, not listening, but pretending to so Isabela wouldn’t start in on them.

“Do you agree, Hawke?” Aveline said.

Fenris squeezed her knee under the table. His gauntlets were on the floor at their feet along with their weapons.

She brushed her fingers absently through Fenris’ hair. She had no idea what Aveline was proposing. “Of course.”

Fenris smoothed his hand up her thigh, a confident touch over the cured leather of her pants.

“Then we’ll go tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

Isabela burst out laughing. “Aveline, she’s not listening to you.”

Fenris pressed his lips to the side of Hawke’s throat, either unaware or uninterested in the table discussion. Possibly both. But he seemed more than content to curl around Hawke like a cat, slow and leisurely, possessive and casual.

“I _am_ ,” Hawke lied.

Varric jerked his chin at her. “So what’s she been talking about?”

Aveline turned to her expectantly. Beside her, Merrill mimed something that was probably supposed to give Hawke a clue.

She drained her mead to give herself an extra second to decipher Merrill’s motions, but she wasn’t helping. “Uh, the Qunari, obviously.”

Aveline leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. Merrill rolled her eyes.

“I mean the mages,” Hawke hastily corrected her 50/50 guess that she’d gotten wrong.

The table erupted in more laughter.

“Well, who?” She was getting interested now. “Knight-Commander Meredith?”

Anders scowled. “Obviously she’s not paying attention to your talk of growing crime rates in Lowtown when the elf’s got a hand down her pants.”

Hawke straightened. “I don’t like being talked about as if I’m not here, and I resent the implication that I’m getting fingered right now.”

Anders grimaced and stood up. “I need another drink.”

Isabela waved her empty glass, still laughing. “Make that two.”

It turned out Fenris was listening after all, because he murmured darkly in her ear, “I cannot count how many suitors Isabela’s seduced at this bar, and she’s never garnered so much as a stray blink.”

Isabela leaned forward. “If you were watching every time, perhaps you noticed that I didn’t drape myself over them like a needy octopus.”

“Isabela,” Hawke groaned as Fenris detached himself from her.

She spread her arms. “Do what you want, but if it’s anything fun you should invite me.” She finished that off with a wink.

Fenris kept his hand on Hawke’s knee, hidden from view and scrutiny.

“If I repeat myself, will anybody be listening?” Aveline asked.

“No.”

“Nah.”

“Nope.”

She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Anders?”

“I’m getting another round,” he called from the bar.

A cheer rose from their table.

“Actually.” Fenris’ lips brushed Hawke’s ear. “Could we perhaps…?”

Hawke lifted a brow at him and he nodded. She faked a yawn. “It’s getting kinda late. I think we’re gonna turn in.”

Isabela scoffed as the two gathered their belongings from the floor. Anders set the platter of drinks on the table, a sour twist to his mouth.

Hawke patted his shoulder on her way past him. “You can have mine. Loosen up a little!” She waved a hand at the crowded bar. “There are plenty of beautiful people here… Well, some. A few.”

Isabela stretched across the table for another mug of mead. “And they’re all at this table!”

Fenris slipped an arm around Hawke’s waist, fingers curling around her hip.

Hawke promised to strategize with Aveline tomorrow, when she wasn’t warm and tipsy, alcohol lighting her veins and buoying Fenris.

Then they left, and the heavy stench of bitter alcohol and unwashed sweat that you didn’t notice until you left was replaced by the equally heavy stench of piss and squalor, barely swept away by the salty wind of the sea.

The moon lit the quiet buildings they passed bright but grey, the light in the darkness leeching the streets of colour.

Hawke was doing her best to keep an eye on their surroundings, to stay alert at least until they reached Hightown, because though she hadn’t been paying attention, she knew Aveline was right; crime in this neighbourhood was at an all-time high. But Fenris was making concentration difficult.

Out of the bar, away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears, he draped his arm across her shoulder, strolled with her tucked close to his side—possibly to hide his stumbling footsteps—and outlined what he planned to do to her once they tumbled into bed.

Alcohol loosened his tongue in more ways than one.

She grinned as he detailed how he’d make her squirm and moan just as soon as they found privacy. He smiled back, wide and lascivious, and Hawke almost pulled him into an alley for a make out session to take the edge off.

But they were interrupted.

Two men drew forth from the shadows of the alley she’d been eyeing, blades glinting in their hands. Presumably from a coterie, based off the badges on their arms that she could nearly make out in the dark. They were quickly joined by another two from behind an armory and two more closing in behind Hawke and Fenris.

She sighed. From a distance she and Fenris must have looked like easy targets; a love-struck pair lost in the haze of lust and drink. But surely these men had noticed Hawke’s staff slung across her back, or Fenris’ newest, increasingly ostentatious sword?

No, Hawke never got that lucky.

“Alright, hand over your coin and valuables,” one man said, like this was just another boring day as a lowlife. He had to play his part and Fenris and Hawke would play theirs—terrified but in the end yielding victims.

Even when she was walking with Aveline, captain of the guard, or Isabela, a very obvious pirate or—again, Fenris, with dangerous tattoos and a big scary knife—thieves were always ready to test them.

It always proved to be the stupidest decision of their lives.

“Do you know who this is?” Fenris gestured at Hawke expectantly. A riff on Varric’s usual, _Don’t these idiots know who we are by now?_

She leaned into his side, a smirk tugging at her lips. She still couldn’t explain how she’d come to be the leader of her ragtag group of misfits, but she preened whenever one of them acknowledged it.

The first two men advanced on them, lifting their blades. Apparently vague intimidation wasn’t going to work.

Or perhaps it was Hawke, falling against Fenris’ chest with a laugh, who wasn’t taking this quite as seriously as she should have been, ruining any intimidation factor. But that was nothing new.

“This is Hawke,” Fenris continued. He finally pulled away from her, turning to keep watch on the men advancing from behind. He leisurely slid his sword off his back. Loose with his movements but steady on his feet. “She’s fought dragons.”

She tossed him a wink. “ _We’ve_ fought dragons.”

“And darkspawn,” he said as their attackers closed ranks.

“And demons.” She finally brought her staff in front of her. “That is to say: do you really think we can’t handle a few street thugs?”

But they didn’t back off. They never did.

It wasn’t five minutes later when Hawke and Fenris were sheathing their weapons, a pile of unconscious men at their feet. The two breathed heavily, more from the adrenaline rush than exertion.

She looked over their would-be attackers to check they wouldn’t rise any time soon. When she returned her attention to Fenris, she found his gaze heavy on her, dilated pupils and a barely-there grin. That familiar look that Varric always teased him for, because he was enjoying the thrill of the fight a little _too_ much.

And Hawke made fun of him for always wanting to fuck after a fight, but she couldn’t deny the rush, the exhilaration of fighting at his side, taking down enemies effortlessly, even buzzed on watered-down mead. It wasn’t the violence that was exciting, but the inevitable win. The knowledge that they could take on anything together and survive.

His hands in his gauntlets flexed. He lifted on his toes like he was about to close the distance between them and celebrate their victory. But he stopped himself.

Because they were in the middle of a battlefield, however small and inconsequential it was, and Hawke had put a halt to fuck-fighting. Their relationship was a careful give-and-take since they’d fought Danarius, setting boundaries and strictly following them, respecting each other’s wishes because they both had a tendency to act a little… rash.

So she appreciated him catching himself, even though it was written on his face how much he wanted her.

And maybe it was his expression, or maybe it was the fact that they were alone, or simply the moon reflecting off his silver hair making him glow like an ethereal being, but she decided to make an exception.

She caught him by the back of the neck and pulled his mouth to hers. He was caught off guard, but only for a second. Then he wrapped an arm around her waist and slid his palm along her jaw, someone’s blood smearing against her skin.

Heat rose in Hawke’s chest as Fenris pressed in close, his solid body lining up against hers. The kiss was hot with victory and passion, burning into something more quickly.

He broke the kiss, but didn’t move far. His breath streaked down her chest. “May I suggest we run back to Hightown?”

She eyed the alley their attackers had appeared from. “May I suggest somewhere closer?”

His brows rose.

She tugged him into the alley.

She pressed him against the wall, hands flat against his breast plate. The faint taste of wine lingered on his tongue as he kissed her.

He switched their positions and hiked her leg around his hip. But his fingers had barely reached her ass before Hawke heard a noise that distracted her.

She tore her mouth from Fenris'. His lips went to her throat, but her attention was pulled to the end of the alley, where Isabela was snickering with Merrill.

Merrill’s eyes widened when Hawke saw them. She tugged on Isabela’s arm, saying, “Uh, don’t mind us! We’re leaving.”

Isabela stood fast.

Fenris dropped Hawke to her feet. Her cheeks burned with indignation. “Isabela, I swear-”

“Nothing you can threaten me with will prevent me from telling the others about this,” she laughed, waving between the bloodied coterie men and their interrupted tryst in the alley. She dragged Merrill back to the bar, head thrown back with laughter.

“We could _make_ them keep quiet,” Fenris suggested idly, still close enough to feel his heartbeat.

“We could…” She squeezed his hips. “Or we could hightail it home and finish what we started.”

“Hm, a promising counteroffer.” He grinned. “I accept.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've got something bigger in the works, not in this verse, but still Fenris and Hawke. But I had this little thing half-finished, so I figured I'd finish it off and post it before I started in on editing the other thing.  
> Feedback greatly appreciated!


End file.
